Best British Short Stories 2020 by Nicholas Royle (reading books for 5 year olds txt) 📗

with his wine glass and poured some more for both of them when he put it down. Not far off. He hadn’t even been able to say nearly. Was he really bragging to her?

‘And what does she do?’

‘She’s a social worker.’

‘A Muslim social worker.’

‘What does that tone mean? What is wrong with that?’

‘Everything is right with that. Who doesn’t love a social worker?’

‘I doubt you know any.’

‘As close friends? You’re right. It’s my failing. I’ll go and find a social worker to marry straight away.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Does she wear the hijab?’ she asked.

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘Nothing. I’m just curious. It just helps me imagine what kind of Muslim she is, what kind of woman she is.’

‘Oh, really? A head scarf would tell you what kind of woman she is?’

‘Does she wear the hijab?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Are you going to convert?’

‘Listen to yourself. I’m an atheist. Anyway, none of your business.’

‘This is so typical of you. Everything’s an authenticity contest. Well, congratulations. You’re at the centre of things now. It’s a good job you got away from me before I forced you to make me pregnant. Imagine, I could have given birth to someone as boring as us.’

The two men on the table next to them were glancing over at them without moving their heads.

He reached over the table and touched her hand. ‘I really am sorry that didn’t work out. I know how hard it was for you.’ He was speaking as if to a difficult child on public transport.

‘I knew what you were doing up there, you know,’ she said, ‘when you were in the study.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Tunnelling away. Scraping out your escape route. Exhaust yourself on porn, then you can redeem yourself with a member of the historically oppressed, someone who can prove your credentials, cast my apathy into the starkest light.’

‘Oh, Claire, come on.’

‘Does she wear a hijab?’

‘You’re obsessed! No, she doesn’t. And the idea that I’m with her out of some kind of virtue signalling is so fucking offensive. I’m with her because she’s not jaded, she’s not bitter, she believes in things, she’s not defeated.’

‘How old exactly is she?’

‘I don’t have to answer your interrogation.’

‘How old is she?’

‘You want to know? She’s twenty-seven.’

‘Well, of course she’s not jaded! Of course she’s not defeated! She hasn’t been defeated yet. She hasn’t wasted enough time with sanctimonious hypocrites like you.’

David stood up. He was gripping the edge of the table and enunciating carefully. ‘There were things that frustrated me about you when we were together, but I never realised how fucking reactionary you were. You sound like a fucking Islamophobe, do you know? No wonder you and your racist mate Patrick get on so well. I thought it was the decent thing to tell you in person about Ailah, sensitively, but I should have known better.’

And then he left. The two men next to her didn’t know where to look but the rest of the room was looking straight at her.

She looked out the window and saw David striding down the South Bank. He had left no money to pay the bill. She couldn’t stand to be there a second longer, but she had no cash to leave on the table, and so she sat and waited for a waiter to come near. The waiters had seen what had happened and were steering clear, out of fear or misguided kindness.

She caught the eye of the two men next to her. One of them smiled at her sympathetically.

‘That man,’ she said to him. ‘Who called me Islamophobic. I used to live with him. I caught him once. Watching videos … Of Muslim women.’

‘That’s awful,’ said the man. His partner nodded. ‘Awful. Are you all right, love?’

‘I’m not racist,’ she said. But if you ever had to say that, then you were racist – everyone knew that. The whole restaurant knew what she was. 4

She paid for the pizzas which they hadn’t eaten and took possession of them in two pizza boxes so she could at least give them away to someone who needed them. She was far too angry to eat now. David had taken his voucher with him when he left so she had been charged for both pizzas. He was the type of man who would have suspended hostilities to send her a screenshot of the voucher, if she had asked, but she was not the type of woman to ask.

Now she balanced the pizza boxes across one arm and wheeled her suitcase out to the lip of the Thames, breathing in and out, wishing she had a cigarette. When she reached the South Bank Centre, by the skate park, the top box slipped off the bottom box and landed flat on the floor upside down. She swore the correct amount for the situation. People looked at her and walked past.

A boy skated up as she struggled to put down the other box; he got off his board in a fluid movement, picked up the box and flipped it quickly upright. He was smooth-faced and as pretty as a whippet, his hair long and curly underneath a baseball cap.

He smiled. ‘That smells good.’

‘Thank you. Please have it. I don’t want it. I thought I’d give them to a homeless person, but I expect homeless people are probably too drunk and high by now to eat pizza. My god. That’s an awful thing to say. I’m worried I don’t realise how much of an awful person I’ve become. You don’t have a cigarette, do you? I’ll swap you a pizza for a cigarette.’

He reached into his jeans and pulled out a packet of rolling tobacco. ‘I bet you’re not an awful person. You do sound like you need a cigarette though. Shall I roll it for you?’

‘Please. That was an outburst.’ She took a deep breath and made herself smile.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, no. Getting there. Who knows?’

He rolled the cigarette in a matter of seconds, offered it to her and lit